


Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Auto Shop

by Zanne



Series: Jobs 'verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, High School, Teenchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-05
Updated: 2011-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanne/pseuds/Zanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam hears a rumor about his dad at school.  Is it the end of the world or does Arkansas just have really screwed up content standards? Sam decides to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Auto Shop

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://nativestar.livejournal.com/profile)[**nativestar**](http://nativestar.livejournal.com/) and [](http://astrothsknot.livejournal.com/profile)[ **astrothsknot**](http://astrothsknot.livejournal.com/)  for beta-ing this...possibly insane bit of work. The probability of this is somewhere hidden deep within the negative side of the numberline, but it's summer and people need to be amused. Besides, it involves John and that makes me happy. I know crap about the inner workings of cars so if anything is wrong, I apologize. Kripke owns _all_ of the Winchesters _and_ the Impala, greedy bastard (said with love). (Originally posted: 6/29/07)

“Mr. Winchester! Mr. Winchester!” puffed the small, balding man hurriedly walking – not _running_ , principals never ran where students could see them – down the cool, gray tiled hallway. He swerved around an open locker door, making mental note of the illegal band stickers decorating the inside – Mr. Falconi needed to make a trip to the counselor’s office, it seemed – panting out another semi-authoritative, “Mr. _*puff*_ Winchester!”

He could see the well-built man slump slightly in his over-sized jacket as if gathering his reserves before his spine straightened and he turned to face the principal running – no, _walking with authority_ \- down the hallway towards him. Mr. Winchester casually reached out, latching that large hand around his son’s – the hooligan, and the principal knew about hooligans since he had a school _full_ of them – bicep, making the boy stand suddenly at attention at his side.

The principal blinked in surprise, stopping short at seeing the boy respond like that to _anyone_.

“Hello, Mr. Bunkler,” the Winchester father began with a subdued impatience - his words heavy with the possibility of hooliganism, Mr. Bunkler could tell, and _he would know_ – but carefully swathed in polite acknowledgement of Mr. Bunkler’s important academic position.

Mr. Bunkler hesitated, thinking this might be a bad idea after all. Mr. Winchester continued into the silence, “We just finished talking with the guidance counselor and Dean said he was sorry for what happened – didn’t you, Dean?”

He squeezed his son’s arm lightly.

Dean nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, Mr. Bunkler.”

“And Dean promises it won’t happen again - don’t you, Dean?” Mr. Winchester’s eyes were firm when he glanced over at his son and the boy actually appeared pained at the look in his father’s eyes.

“Yes, sir.”

“At least not where he’ll get caught,” Mr. Bunkler thought he heard the father grumble under his breath. The boy snorted something like a laugh, his eyes going hooded as he glanced to the side at his father, a small grin making the corner of his lip quirk upwards.

“Is there anything you need, Mr. Bunkler?” John Winchester asked with another hint of that impatience. “I’m taking my boy home for a good talking to about the proper way to treat a lady.”

“Yes, I-,” Mr. Bunkler paused, glancing over at Dean slouching against the handrail, the boy’s eyes fixated on the cheerleading team who had the misfortune to come out to practice just at that moment.

Inwardly, Mr. Bunkler sighed, already counting the hours until Dean Winchester was in the guidance counselor’s office again with a new lady friend. Hooligans just did not realize that school restrooms or supply closets or locker rooms were not meant for carnal activities.

Mr. Bunkler disliked having to talk to parents…or students…or _people_ , which is why he left all of that nonsense to his very capable office staff. However, this was a matter of great import and he had to use the full weight of the might and authority of the Arkansas educational system for his next task.

“Could I talk with you alone for a moment, Mr. Winchester?” Mr. Bunkler broached with another large dose of the executive clout that came with the position of principal.

Mr. Winchester sighed, nodding his son in the direction of that large, black hooligan-mobile that Mr. Bunkler was always sure would leave oil stains in the school’s beautiful parking lot, but never did. This realization bolstered his courage and he straightened his shoulders with a hint of relief that this was _the right thing to do_.

“Straight to the car, Dean,” Mr. Winchester ordered. “ _Alone_.” The boy gave his father an impertinent nod and disappeared around the hedge. Mr. Bunkler briefly wondered if he should call the office and prepare the guidance counselor for another meeting with Dean Winchester later _this_ afternoon. After all, there was a whole squad of cheerleaders and at least two supply closets, a garden shed, and the baseball dugout between him and his vehicle.

“I’ve become quite familiar with your son’s file over his recent string of…extracurricular activities,” Mr. Bunkler began.

Mr. Winchester nodded guardedly, his hands now buried in his jacket pockets as he stared down at the principal, waiting for him to continue.

“It says you were a Marine and used to be a mechanic.”

John Winchester nodded again, more hesitantly this time, his eyes already skirting paths of escape.

“Good!” Mr. Bunkler beamed, reaching out to pat a comradely hand on Mr. Winchester’s arm. Mr. Winchester just stared down at the hand on his sleeve until Mr. Bunkler pulled it away, wiping his palm nervously on his coat.

“We’re in a bit of a bind. Mr. Johnson, our auto shop teacher, had that unfortunate riveting…accident – and it was an accident no matter what the boy’s parole officer insists! - in class a couple of days ago and we have no qualified personnel to take over. The boys are running rampant and we just can’t have them disrupting classes and….” Mr. Bunkler paused when he noted Mr. Winchester’s arched eyebrow, incorrectly interpreting it as intense parental concern rather than bored resignation tinged with _hurry the fuck up so I can go home_.

Rushing into his last portion of his spiel, Mr. Bunkler stated, “By the power vested in me as a representative of the educational authority of the great state of Arkansas, I would like to extend to you the offer of long-term substitute until Mr. Johnson regains the use of his remaining fingers.”

Mr. Winchester blinked dumbly, obviously overwhelmed by the honor of the position.

“It sounds like a challenge, but a man with your background would be perfect for this job!” Mr. Bunkler continued cajolingly. “I know the classes are composed of our more…unruly boys seeking vocational training in the automotive arts, but with your military experience, as well as your mechanical training, it might be just what they need!”

When Mr. Winchester did not jump at the chance, Mr. Bunkler added hopefully, “Paycheck every two weeks and full health and dental coverage are available for our vocational program experts and their families. Plus, all expenses for field trips or extracurricular activities for the children of faculty members are also covered by the school.”

Something flickered in John Winchester’s eyes at that bit of information. “Deal.” 

                                                        ~~~~~~~~~~~~

While Sam had gotten used to being stared at with every start at a new school, they had been here for nearly two months and the staring had died down _weeks_ ago. However, he felt that familiar prickling along his spine that meant a lot of people were watching him and didn’t want him to know.

Dean must have done something new and amazing. Sometimes, it was hard to be the little brother of a self-made legend. If Sam had to curb another rumor that Dean had convinced the Spanish teacher to dance the flamenco naked after school or that Dean was, in fact, the leader of a new gang of toughs that had taken over the South side (the south side of _what_ , Sam often wondered, considering this was barely urban _Arkansas_ , for God’s sake), he may have a minor aneurysm and wind up face first in his processed meat loaf.

As Sam slid into one of the abandoned seats in the cafeteria, a kid he recognized from Algebra – Greg? – leaned over and whispered, “Hey, I didn’t know your dad was a teacher! I thought you said he was a traveling salesman who was out of town a lot!”

Sam blinked in owlish surprise, his fork standing upright in the creamed corn in mutual shock. “My dad’s not a teacher,” Sam muttered frostily.

Greg arched an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses, his doubt at Sam’s word obvious. “You sure, man? I coulda sworn I heard it was your dad.”

“I’m sure,” Sam stated bluntly, shoving in a scoopful of green Jell-O. “My father doesn’t give a shit about school.” 

                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~

Thing was, he was hearing this rumor a lot over the next few days. He didn’t bother asking his father because, c’mon, it was his _Dad_. The only thing his father could do with a room full of teenagers was blast them full of rock salt or maybe use them as bait for some carnivorous beast he needed to hunt, neither of which was a content standard of the Arkansas school system, as far as Sam was aware.

When Sally Munroe leaned over in Biology and hissed, “God, your dad sounds so _awesome_!” Sam knew he had had enough.

With a pleading smile and the artful use of his wide-eyed innocent look - the one that Dean told him would get him more ass than a stack of hundreds at a hooker convention when he learned how to max out its potential - Sam managed to finagle a bathroom pass out of Mr. Kerlin. He carefully made his way to the office, determined to look for evidence during Ms. Lillian’s ritually timed coffee break – 10:15 AM on the dot, gone for 15 minutes exactly, according to Dean, who also told him where the key to the copy room was hidden and how to jam the door so no teachers could break in if Sam were entertaining any company.

Sam got there at 10:16 - Ms. Lillian’s butt-print still visible in the soft cushion of her chair - and he slunk his way around the front desk to carefully examine the files left in such disarray on the tabletop. Surprise, there was Dean’s, front and center. Sam snorted, carefully rifling through what he could find when he heard something that made his world go askew like a quick kick to the kneecap.

His father… _laughing_.

Any reason that would bring his father to the school office never resulted in _that_ sound coming from his dad; more often than not it was a raised voice, maybe the occasional snort of disbelief…once there had been something that sounded like a drain gurgling – and they had left town very quickly after _that_ meeting to be sure, but _never_ laughter.

This couldn’t be good.

With something akin to dread sending goosebumps prickling along his skin, Sam turned and somehow made the couple of steps to the door of the teachers’ lounge. Carefully peeping along the edge of a poster proclaiming the benefits of junior college that was blocking most of the window, Sam saw the impossible.

His father, sitting in a group of relatively _normal_ adults, having coffee and _laughing_. Laughing!

There was no doubt that was his dad leaning against the counter next to a percolating coffee pot, his arms loosely crossed over his belly with a mug in one hand and that disarming heartland of America smile aimed at the teachers gathered nearby. Dean called it his Dairy Council smile where their father could hear, but called it the Panty Dropper when their dad wasn’t around. That disgusted Sam beyond belief, but made Dean throw him a knowing grin and tousle Sam’s hair. Dean said Sam was old enough to make the connection between their dad’s off-hand smile and the sudden appearance of free dessert at their table at nearly every diner they dropped by.

Sam briefly wondered about the possibility of mass hysteria, possession, brain tumor or alien abduction, but none of it satisfactorily explained what he was seeing. Then he almost wished for a brain tumor when he saw Ms. Lillian place her hand on his father’s arm, giggling at something he’d just said – and his father smiled _back_.

His jaw dropping in amazement, Sam was relieved when he saw his dad do that artful twist-turn he did when he wanted to get out of someone’s reach without them realizing it – Sam had seen it plenty when things started to get a little out of control during a witness interview or in a bar while playing pool. He turned his body just enough so that the hand fell away as he flashed a smile at the aggressor and drew a new person into the conversation with a directed question, deflecting attention from the maneuver. Sam had to admit, his father was a genius with these tactics.

Sam was dumbfounded. His father was faking normal better than Sam ever thought possible.

Later that afternoon, as Dean drove him home, Sam asked if the world were ending. Dean leered and replied that if Sam were Candace Sullivan, the earth shook that afternoon during Study Hall, but no, the world was not ending.

The first thing Sam did after school that day was to look up the content standards for the state of Arkansas and reread Revelation, just to be sure. 

                                                  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Sam went on a fact-finding mission.

The sophomore girls loitering around the restroom before third period told him in great squealing detail how Mr. Winchester – _isn’t he a **hottie**? Oh? Your name is Winchester, too?_ – took down Curtis Gallo, only the scariest guy in school. _What do you **mean** you didn’t hear? Do you live on this **planet**?_ Curtis tried to whack Mr. Winchester in the head with a socket wrench – _**I** heard it was a tire iron…. Well, **I** heard it was a baseball bat…. What would a **baseball** bat be doing in **auto** shop? Well, that’s what I **heard**..._ – and Mr. Winchester – _he’s cuter than Fox Mulder! You just wanna take a bite out of that…. **MaryAnn**!_ – took him **down**. Mr. Winchester grabbed the wrench – _no, it was a **bat**! I’m telling you!_ – without even turning around - _like he was some kind of **psychic**! Shut **up** , MaryAnn…_ \- and threw Curtis over his shoulder – _into the wall! They thought Curtis was **dead** …. If they thought Curtis was dead, Mr. Winchester would be in **jail** , MaryAnn..._ – and knocked him silly. Then Mr. Winchester pinned Curtis - _God, Mr. Winchester can pin me **any** day of the week…. MaryAnn! You are **such** a slut! Am **not**! Are, **too**! Am **not**!_ \- and wrapped his wrists and ankles in some spare baling wire, informing the class never to turn their backs on an enemy, even if they thought he was out of play, until they secured his movement. The rest of the class didn’t dare try anything again that day.

Sam decided not to risk asking any other girls their opinion. He was afraid he was scarred for life, as it was.

Sam warily ventured out on another investigation during gym, where he found out even more from a very appreciative bunch of scrawny freshman boys. _Dude, it was awesome!_ Mr. Winchester took his entire 4th period and made them run laps. He told them if they didn’t have enough discipline – _called ‘em pansy ass bitches, is what I heard!_ \- to pay attention in the classroom, maybe they had to burn off a little energy – _or maybe he’d have to kick their asses all the way around the track_ – and they did it until they dropped. _Best thing, dude?_ Mr. Winchester ran with his class and outlasted them all - _old guy like that? Shit, yeah! Awesome!_ Then he made those still standing do push-ups until they passed out. _Dude! Your name is Winchester, too? Why didn’t you say your dad was so bad-ass?  
_  
Sam’s next venture took him into Dean’s neck of the woods, where he managed to overhear a few seniors gossiping about the new auto shop teacher. _…yeah, MaryAnn, call her. It’s totally worth it. Hey, you hear about shop today? Mr. Winchester taught ‘em how to properly hotwire a car without damaging the steering column. Said there was no point stealing something you couldn’t keep running for several days. They had to learn how to rewire the air conditioning system first, but how cool is that? God, I wish I had to take shop.  
_  
Sam dared to delve into the girls’ realm for more information – he realized they spilled more details, even with all the awkward, stomach roiling tangents about his father’s…assets. He had the misfortune to run into MaryAnn first, who was more than willing to share what she knew - in private. After being dragged into the nearest janitor’s closet, Sam found out - _Fuck! Your hands are **cold** , MaryAnn!_ – that Curtis and a few of the other boys threatened Mr. Winchester’s kids - _stop **touching** me, MaryAnn!_ – so Mr. Winchester walked right up to Curtis and stared him straight in the eye – _those are my **pants**! _ – and said in a deadly serious manner – _Wha-? Huh? He…Christ! Do that **again** …._ – that if any of them went near his kids, no one would find their bodies.

Sam wasn’t sure he left that conversation still a virgin. 

                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam heard rumors of his father’s activities on an almost daily basis – in the lunch line, taking notes in World History, showering after gym, standing at the urinals peeing in unison with upperclassmen. The last two alone were scarring – a guy did not want to hear about how cool his dad was when there were penises anywhere in the area.

Sam began to miss the days when he didn’t hear a word from or about his father for days at a time. He was beginning to avoid going to the bathroom at school so these strange incidents did not occur. Sam was pretty sure he was going to develop a bladder infection from his father’s constant presence in his life these days.

Not that Sam ever saw him. The auto shop building was far enough away that he never ran into his father in the halls during passing period, never saw him out in the quad, and never had to sit near him in assemblies. Sam began to wonder why his dad never mentioned this job at home. He was acting like everything was _normal_ – well, normal for the Winchesters, that is.

Just as Sam was settling into the complacency that was his freshman existence, his father up and disappeared for nearly a week. This wasn’t new – sometimes, an emergency came up and he’d be gone before the sun rose, off to hunt some creature before anyone else died. Sam expected the stories of his father to fade out since he would obviously be fired for missing nearly a week of work, but then he heard something new.

The girls were atwitter with the news – Dean Winchester, that senior boy that had transferred in a couple of months ago with the spindly little freshman brother, was teaching auto shop, but it was supposed to be a secret. _OhmiGod! Dean is so cute! Just like his **dad**. _ Apparently, Mr. Winchester had a family emergency, but since he had taught Dean everything he knew – _you think that’s **true**? *tee-hee* ‘Cause what Dean can do with his…. MaryAnn! You are a **total** ‘ho!_ – he was filling in, passing on assignments to Mr. Winchester’s classes during frequent ditch breaks from his own.

Sam was more than a little pissed. Did his family tell him _nothing_? He kind of expected it from his father, but _Dean_? Sam stalked straight over to the auto shop building on the third day – the territory where freshmen feared to tread, all too often locked in the trunk of one of the wrecks they worked on - determined to have it out with Dean after hearing Patsy Chin praise his brother’s family loyalty throughout Mr. Leland’s entire lecture on Roman architecture and its influence on the Classical revival in Renaissance religious structures.

Sam did not wind up locked in a trunk. He used his well-honed skills at stealth – moving under his dad’s radar in cramped motel rooms kept this talent sharp – and his freakish ability to hide his lanky frame almost in plain sight, to edge his way into enemy territory.

Sam hesitantly approached the observation window – _Why an observation window for auto shop? Were they planning to put on a production of **Grease** in there?_ – and nerved himself to peer in at the side of his father’s life that Sam knew almost nothing about when a hand fell heavily on his shoulder.

Sam reacted with a quick backwards elbow to his unseen opponent’s ribs, but was deflected by a large hand on his wrist and a sudden painful jerk to the side. Sam fell to his knees to alleviate the twist to his shoulder, glaring up at his grinning brother with a look that, if wishes were granted, would make Dean’s head explode.

“Good move, Sammy!” Dean chortled proudly. “Almost got me that time!”

Dean released his grip, helping Sam to his feet as he asked, “What’re you doin’ here, squirt? Lucky you’re not shaking hands with the drill press right now. You know freshmen aren’t allowed over here.”

Dean clamped a hand on Sam’s shoulder and gently push-dragged him towards the exit until Sam dug in his heels – and maybe grabbed hold of a passing doorframe to halt his forward progress – refusing to go any further.

“I came to talk to you, Dean!” Sam muttered insistently, digging his nails into the wood as his brother’s grip tightened around his waist. This led to a very embarrassing tug-of-war with Dean grunting obscenities as he tried to pry his younger brother off the doorjamb.

“God-damn monkey-limbed freak,” Dean grumbled, giving up with a soft pant. He leaned back against the wall, slowly sliding down until he was seated on the floor across from his brother, folding in on himself like some sort of origami crane. “What d’ya want, Sammy?”

Sam considered his brother, taking a similar position across the hall with one leg sprawled out as a tenuous bridge between them. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Sam said softly, adding as almost an afterthought, “Why didn’t _he_ tell me?”

Dean’s eye went hooded – Sam could almost see the guards sliding into place as he watched – and Dean replied, “You’re gonna have to ask Dad, Sam.”

“Then I might as well just ask you again, Dean,” Sam snapped shortly. “You’re my universal Dad translation device.”

Dean glanced at him in surprise, both eyebrows arched high on his forehead as he snorted, “God, you are such a _geek_. Don’t tell people I’m related to you, OK?”

Dean gracefully rose to his feet, casually brushing dirt off the back of his jeans as he said, “Dad’ll be back soon. Ask him, Sammy. I mean it.” With that bit of advice, Dean turned to head back towards the little world their father had carved out in the school – a place of normalcy where people seemed to like him and follow his lead, a place where Sam still didn’t fit. 

                                                  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam didn’t ask him. The last thing he felt like doing was talking to his father, particularly after the relatively uncomfortable lunch period he spent listening to MaryAnn enumerate things in relation to his dad that never should have been proposed within Mr. Winchester’s children’s hearing. To give MaryAnn credit, she didn’t realize Sam was sitting at the next table. MaryAnn was an extremely…affectionate girl whose internal editor must have died when she was very young. She didn’t seem to have an “off” switch, and whatever tripped its way across the vast, empty space in her cranium fell out of her mouth shortly afterwards. Sam was both fascinated and appalled – and very possibly enamored.

Sam’s luck ran out the month after his father returned. Being the new kid on staff, he was selected as the representative of the school paper – the one reporter lucky enough to interview the awesome Mr. Winchester for his memorial article. Mr. Johnson was returning the next week, minus three fingers, but he was tenured so what was the School Board to do?

Sam tried to weasel his way out, mentioning his familial connection to the subject of the article and how that would make his reporting impartial and wasn’t there some kind of law against that? The editor took him aside and said, yes, they would usually take such things into consideration, but Sam was the only one of them guaranteed to go into the “kill zone” and still retain some shred of dignity with the umbrella of protection he had as Mr. Winchester’s son.

The last reporter they had sent into the auto maintenance building still pinned his underwear to his pants and gibbered things about hacksaws and trunks that made the rest of the class go pale. Sam was their white flag, their ambassador of diplomatic relations – they were going to use what they had to their advantage.

Sam put it off for another couple of days, unsure of how to act with his father when their lives weren’t on the line, or when Dean wasn’t practicing his aim by throwing Captain Crunch at Sam’s head (his brother’s new favorite past-time in the evenings when they were all crammed in the kitchenette at the same time), or when their father wasn’t barking orders and demanding they do push-ups or clean weapons or some other useless drill designed to drive Sam crazy.

Sam finally decided that today was the day. After hearing Pete’s whispered horror stories of his previous sojourn in the auto zone, Sam went for the metaphorical Kevlar - his PE shirt with S. Winchester written in black Sharpie across the chest. Aside from getting a T-shirt with his dad’s face on the front, he figured that was enough to keep his underwear from being pulled over his head or from being thrown naked into the girl’s locker room.

Sam found out his father’s free period from MaryAnn – that girl was slightly scary with her knowledge of his father’s comings and goings – and cautiously slunk his way into the auto maintenance building just as the fifth period bell rang. He studied his father through the observation window for a few minutes, watching him tinker under the hood of a Honda, more relaxed than Sam had ever seen him.

His father looked…happy. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, he had grease smudged along his forearms and he was whistling. This was the John Winchester Dean told him about, the one Dean saw in the man that Sam called his father. Sam had seen glimpses of him, as well, but so rarely that he often thought he’d imagined it. Turns out Dean might not be as insane as Sam thought.

Sam silently crept in the room, drawing a breath to announce his presence when the whistling cut off and his father’s voice stated clearly, “I was wonderin’ when you’d work up the nerve to come in.” John carefully set the wrench aside, reaching for the rag draped over the fender as he turned to face Sam standing open-mouthed in the doorway. John leaned back against the grill, taking care not to bump his head on the hood as he casually wiped his hands on the rag, his eyes staying focused on the semi-circles of grease caught beneath his fingernails as he awaited Sam’s explanation for being there.

When no words appeared to be forthcoming, John glanced up, chuckling when he caught sight of Sam’s PE shirt proudly proclaiming his Winchester roots. He arched an eyebrow when he saw the notepad and small tape recorder in Sam’s hands, asking for an explanation with a tilt of his head in their direction.

“The…um…they asked me to…um, interview you for the school paper since Mr. Johnson is coming back next week,” Sam offered.

John stilled as if stunned into immobility, but it only lasted for a fraction of a second. He grinned wryly, replying with a casual gesture at Sam’s shirt, “And here I thought you were just comin’ to say we needed to do laundry.”

Sam still hung back in the safety of the door, his hesitancy at coming in to talk with his own father making John feel an uncomfortable twinge of guilt. With a tilt of his head towards the car, John invited Sam into his domain. The engine, as usual, served as neutral territory – a Switzerland composed of oil, gears, and wires with the handy First-Aid kit their ever-flying flag.

Sam wasn’t used to sharing this with his father; this was Dean’s area of paternal communication. They could talk motors for hours, leaving Sam to his own devices; Dad and Dean’s camaraderie gave Sam the opportunity to create his own secrets - his own _Sam_ \- to be a person not limited by the strictures his father had unintentionally set forth from Sam’s earliest memories.

Turns out, the Sam he made was not the Sam their father had expected – John still always wound up with a look of comic surprise whenever he and Sam would get into one of their arguments, as if he wondered where this child had come from.

So with bated breath Sam ventured onto neutral ground, his father on one side of the open hood and Sam on the other, two opposing forces meeting at the bargaining table.

John began negotiations by opening the floor to questions as he began to reattach some wiring under the hood. “So, what did you need to ask me, Sam?”

“Do you miss doing this?” Sam blurted out, the question surprising even him.

John’s hand hesitated over a coupling, trembling slightly before he clenched his hand to still the almost imperceptible evidence of his nervousness. Within a second, he was back to screwing things in place as he replied gently, “Yeah, I guess I do. It’s…calming - very Zen and the art of automobile maintenance.” John glanced up at Sam from beneath his dark brows, a wry grin making his cheeks dimple with amusement.

Sam snorted a laugh, remembering the poorly wrapped present he’d found on his bed-side when he turned eleven. His father had been called away the night before on a hunt, but he’d still remembered to leave Sam’s present where he could find it. Sam had sat in bed, wrapped up in the sheets as he peeled off the layers of tinfoil and twine to find a used, but well-cared for copy of _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_.

Sam devoured that book before his father came home a couple of days later, and – for about a month – Sam felt he understood his father better than he ever had. Alas, the book wasn’t magic and Sam and John were back to arguing before summer was underway. There was that memorable occasion where it served as a projectile aimed at John’s head when Sam was unable to control his temper one late July afternoon.

Sam still had that book buried at the bottom of his duffel.

“Seems like the students really like you.”

John shrugged off-handedly, uncomfortable with even the faintest praise. “They just needed a firm hand.”

“How long have you worked here?”

John cocked his head to the side, his eyes sliding to the left as he thought. “About three months.”

The realization that this was nearly a month longer than Sam had assumed made Sam blurt out, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

John stilled, the grease staining his hands a symbolic sign of guilt, much like Lady MacBeth and her damned spot. John clenched his hands on the side on the car, hunching over the engine as if bracing himself for a blow before he let out a slow breath, the tension draining from him as he refocused on how the parts fit back together – how to make them whole.

Engines were a lot easier to deal with than children.

“I’ve got a son,” John began conversationally. “Our lifestyle hasn’t been easy on him. We travel a lot; my job is…difficult on all of us.” John went through the motions of readjusting some screws as he continued, “All my son ever wanted was normal. Stay in one place, have friends, play soccer.”

John kept his gaze on the machinery under his hands, Sam stilling as he listened to what his father was trying to say. “School was what he had – that was his normal. Went to class like the other kids, complained about his homework and his teachers – it was his opportunity to be just like everybody else. School was something I couldn’t fuck up for him…much – though I’ve given it a damn good try over the years.”

John ran a hand along a strand of tubing. “I was trying to honor his wishes by staying out of what he wanted so badly. Didn’t want to mess it up.”

John reached for a socket wrench balanced near the alternator, only to glance up in surprise as Sam pressed it firmly into his hand. “You were giving him normal,” Sam summed up.

John nodded, a small smile making his eyes crinkle. “Tryin’ to. Didn’t work out as well as I thought. I think he’s kinda pissed.”

“Awww,” Sam replied with a dismissive wave. “I’m sure he’ll get over it.”

John laughed, his rich, warm tones echoing in the large room, relief evident on his face. “Good to know.” He tossed a rag in Sam’s direction, indicating he should clean up with another tilt of his head. “By the way, next week you and Dean are scheduled to see every damned doctor I can find – eyes, teeth, full physicals, whatever. If you two need any fixin’, we have to get it done before I lose the insurance.”

“What about the vet?” Sam asked with a mischievous glint to his eye. “We should get Dean spayed while we can.”

“Already on the list,” John replied seriously. 

                                                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The following week, after a rousing - if slightly illegal - goodbye party thrown for Mr. Winchester by his combined classes on his final day, Sam and Dean helped their father pack up his few items and carry them to the car. They were heading out that evening for a hunt in Oklahoma and would finish off the school year with home study.

John paused in the middle of the parking lot, turning in confusion when he heard his name being called loudly across the sea of parked cars. “Mr. Winchester! Yoo-hoo, Mr. Winchester!”

Sam and Dean both stood at alert like a pair of pointers, heads turning as one when they heard that familiar cry.

“Oh, shit!”

“How’d she find out?!”

They swarmed their father in a flurry of arms and legs, pulling him towards the car while trying to juggle the last couple of boxes John was carrying. “Get in the car, Dad,” Dean ordered, shoving John’s head under the doorframe and into the backseat. Sam assisted with a shove to John’s backside, sliding across the front seat and locking his door.

“What in the hell is wrong with you two?” John demanded, still trying to prop himself upright from the nearly upside down position he’d landed in.

“We gotta get you out of here,” Sam explained, motioning Dean to hurry with a wild flapping of his hand.

“Why? Is this because of that girl?” John blinked in dawning horror. “Is she _pregnant_ , Dean?!”

“Not by me!” Dean yelped, nearly stalling the car, the black behemoth lurching gracelessly as Dean’s foot slipped off the pedal.

“We’re doing this for your own good, Dad!” Sam insisted as Dean tried to regain his composure, peeling out with a shrieking squeal of tires.

In his office, Mr. Bunkler cringed at the sound, wondering how much resurfacing the parking lot might cost as he happily tossed _Winchester, Dean_ into the box of student files to be stored at the District Office.

“She’s like a…kraken,” Sam explained breathlessly, almost fearfully peeping over the back of the seat to see if they were being followed. “Once she’s got you in her grasp, you go down.”

“Or she does,” Dean snorted, coughing to cover his glee when he saw his father leaning over the seat with a frown. “We’re trying to save you from being MaryAnn-ed!” Dean exclaimed self-righteously as he blew through a STOP sign at the edge of campus. “It’s like death and taxes!”

“And just plain _gross_ ,” Sam intoned seriously, blinking at his father over the back of the seat. “You’re like… _old_.”

John slunk down in the back seat, covering his eyes with his hand as he muttered under his breath, “I don’t even wanna know.” 

                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in the school parking lot, the nascent young succubus stamped her foot, her hands on her hips expressing her displeasure. A trifecta of that line would have kept her sated for _months_ , retaining the youth and appeal of this body for future feedings.

Teenage boys were too much like Chinese food – filled her up and then she was ravenous an hour later. Flashes of lust could not satisfy her appetite; she needed a banquet like the eldest Winchester to gratify her insatiable hunger.

Dammit. Next time she was taking root in a host old enough to drink.

With that thought, MaryAnn flounced off towards the football field, carefully sliding the picture of the Winchester family that she’d stolen off Mr. Winchester’s desk into her pocket for later consideration.

It was good to have a goal. 

  
 


End file.
